Annie and Delia tended to eat dinner at Dandy’s, where I often joined them. On one such evening, Delia confessed, “Dennis asked me to send a photograph of myself. What should I do?”
“Send him one,” Annie said.
“Why wouldn’t you?” I asked.
Discomfited, Delia blushed, mumbling something about being a mouse.
“That’s silly,” Annie said.
But Delia went on, “I’m someone that people forget having met.”
Annie and I burst out laughing.
“It’s true,” Delia insisted. “It’s partly because I’m shy, I know, but it’s also because I’m—well—I’m like a piece of very ordinary furniture. Like a school desk, say. Utilitarian. Nothing satin or velvet.”
“Do you want to be satin or velvet?” I asked, surprised by the turn the dinner conversation had taken.
“Maybe not satin or velvet, but not quite so utilitarian, either. Utilitarian eyes, utilitarian mouth,” she said with mild disgust. “Freckles, even.”
“You have beautiful skin,” I said. “Smooth and soft as a peony petal.”
“And a lovely mouth,” Annie added. “Plus, you have quite a nice figure. Don’t you ever take these things into account?”
“Really, you ought to have a photograph taken for Dennis. For the war effort,” I teased.
“What would I wear?”
Now the floodgates were breached, and Annie and I deluged Delia with suggestions. On the walk back to the house, we promised to go with her to the photographer the following Saturday, after dressing her and arranging her hair.
And so it was that Delia McDuff and Dennis Cansler became sweetheart correspondents over the next year. And Annie, Delia, and I grew into a little family of sorts.
Despite the riches of my new life and the continuing kindness of the professor, my mind was always layered, with Roland underneath it all. I had been gone from the farm for a year now. I’d never imagined that the pain would lessen in a year’s time. And it hadn’t.
As Emma had once advised in a particularly intimate letter, “You put one foot ahead of the other, little girl. And hope that someday they carry you to a high and peaceful place.” I continued to be amazed at words spoken and written by people who considered themselves quite ordinary. But then I’d always known there was nothing ordinary about Emma.
As for Annie and Professor Cromwell, he defied my best efforts. He was always cordial to Annie, and a casual friendship did develop, but it lacked the heat I’d hoped for.
On Annie’s side, I felt a reticence. But why? The professor was intelligent, ambitious, good company, and perhaps a bit of a blade. Girls took physics, I was told, only because he taught it. And according to college gossip, more than one had set her cap for him. I refused to believe, as Mrs. Bullfinch maintained, that Barrett Cromwell was in love with me. If I believed that, a weight of obligation or sadness or mindfulness would lie on me, undermining our friendship.
In the meantime, I continued writing imaginary letters to Roland, telling him, No words but your words, no mouth but your mouth … Hadn’t I read somewhere that doing the painful but right thing had its compensations, that you felt good about yourself? For me, where Roland and Dora were concerned, that was not true.
I was sorting laundry in the dining room when I heard mail falling through the letter slot. From the foyer carpet I fetched a smudged envelope with no return address but a Harvester postmark. When I tore it open, a snapshot fell out. Dim, as on a cloudy day, but clearly discernible, Roland stood by the Schoonovers’ gate. On the back, scrawled in pencil: the words “I live on hope.” But “hope” of what?
Autumn came and went. A letter from Emma described the threshing season and how they had lost one or two good workers to the military. Dora herself had worked in the field alongside the remaining men. “She’s determined to see the Allen place out of the red. Roland worries me with that tractor, going too fast, doing too much. What’s the big hurry?”
At the Christmas holiday, Delia, Annie, and I had a week off from our respective offices. Since we only knew one man, we decided to throw a ladies-only dinner party. We asked Mrs. Lander, Mrs. Bullfinch, June Rezmerski, and several other friends to attend: ten in all around the big dining table.
I asked Professor Cromwell to purchase wine. He wanted to pay, but I wouldn’t hear of it. This was a party for women and by women.
Everyone brought a single anonymous gift which they dropped into a pillowcase in the front hall. Before dinner, we sat around the parlor drinking our semisweet white wine and dipping into the pillowcase to retrieve a gift. I received a small brass photograph frame and had coincidentally donated in turn an empty photograph album.
Mrs. Lander said, “You should ask Professor Cromwell for a photo for your frame, Ruby.”
Looking at Annie, I said, “But Mrs. Lander, the professor and I aren’t a … couple.”
“More’s the pity,” she countered. “It’s time you settled down.”
I gestured at the room, the house. “I have a job, I have a home, I have good friends. Some other woman will have to pluck the professor off the tree of romance.”
“Oh, Ruby.” She sighed maternally and sipped her wine.
Rising, I said, “Bring your glasses to the table.”
“How daring, to serve wine,” Mrs. Lander said as we herded into the dining room. “Though I do love it, I admit. Very European.”
I could hear Mrs. Bullfinch telling Mrs. Lander how her friend Mr. Lambini brought red wine from St. Louis. “He was sorry to be tied down there in St. Louis for the holidays. Meetings of the salespeople, he said.”
June caught my eye, shaking her head slightly.
“He’s so fond of Beardsley,” Mrs. Bullfinch went on. “Says the restaurants here are every bit as good as in St. Louis.”
And then we were taking our seats. Delia had created place cards for everyone, decorating each with a watercolor pine bough. As we were finding our places, and with St. Louis on her mind, Mrs. Bullfinch asked, “Did anyone here visit the Exposition in 1904? My late husband took me. It was so grand. Unimaginable. I still think about what a good time we had. We took the train. Only twice I’ve been on the train—going to and from the Exposition.”
The Exposition was a popular topic in Beardsley, despite being thirteen years in the past. So little of historical moment happened there, folks clung to those memories that rose above the ebb and flow of daily life. Flora Lander and her late husband had made the trip. He’d bought her an amethyst bracelet and they’d eaten ice cream out of twisted waffles.
And June Rezmerski remembered how thrilling it had been to be a child, actually living in St. Louis during the Exposition. “I was six years old. We went on the streetcar four times to see everything.”
For our dessert, Annie had made a Lady Baltimore cake. “You went to so much trouble,” one of Delia’s friends exclaimed as Annie carried it in on Aunt’s stemmed cake plate. “The one time I tried, I made a dreadful mess of it. All those layers! Mine kept slip-sliding in every direction.”
Before the dinner party broke up, we each had another glass of wine, toasting “our boys at the front.” As the other guests were leaving, buttoning up coats and dashing out into a light dusting of snow, June held back.
I closed the door on the last and turned. “What is it?”
“It’s about Mr. Lambini. I know it’s been almost a year since I told you I’d ask about him, but when I did, my uncle didn’t know him or anything about him. But he did write the name down. Then recently, he was riding the street car and sitting next to a woman with two little kids. They got to talking and somehow it came out that she was Italian, so my uncle asked, did she know a Giorgio Lambini? Know him? She was his sister. Why did my uncle want to know? He said he’d heard a pal mention a friend of his by that name.
“Well, she said, she was feeling awfully sorry for Giorgio and his little family. Giorgio had lost his job, and with the holidays coming, it was hard.
“‘Lost his job,’ my uncle said, ‘that is hard luck.’ Yes, she said, especially since another little one was on the way.
“Uncle Lou said that with the government buying thousands of shoes and boots for the army, and all the shoe companies hiring, Giorgio Lambini must have done something pretty bad to get himself fired.”
“Poor Mrs. Bullfinch.”
“Do you think she’d want to know?”
“I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t,” I said as June grabbed her things from the coat stand. “I’ll try to find out if he’s been in touch with her.”
Months passed, riding on the rails of routine. Living with Annie and Delia was comfortable. We fit together well. Our long string of evenings was punctuated by concerts and plays at the college, now and then a lecture.
One Saturday morning in March, as we sat at the kitchen table eating oatmeal, Delia said, “We should drop in on Mrs. Bullfinch.” She and Annie knew what I’d learned from June Rezmerski, and we suspected Lambini had not made a recent appearance.
The morning was chilly along its edges, but the sun shone with a will, and we wore only sweaters over our dresses. By afternoon, we could shed the sweaters to dig in the spring garden.
As we approached Mrs. Bullfinch’s house, we heard her playing the piano, thready soprano declaring, “Whispering hope, oh how welcome thy voice.”
“Isn’t that sad?” Delia knocked.
The playing and singing ceased, and Mrs. Bullfinch opened the door. “What a lovely surprise!” She ushered us in. “I was just practicing. I never know when I’ll get a call,” she said, leading us into the parlor. “Weddings. Funerals. Different occasions, I used to sing at least once a week around town. Now, it’s once in a while. Usually for an old friend’s funeral.”
She pointed us to the sofa and chairs. “But that’s life, isn’t it? It grows smaller as we get on.” Still on her feet, she said, “I’ll put the coffeepot on. It’s a treat having company. I don’t have as much as I used to. But that’s life too. Friends move in with their children or they lose their wits and go off to a nursing home, or they pass on.” She left us.
A mist of loneliness rose from the furniture and Axminster. The three of us sat silent, hands in our laps, each wrapped in her own brown study. I looked into an abyss of onlyness, of being just one, forever. And then it passed and Mrs. Bullfinch was carrying in a tray of coffee cups, cream, and sugar.
We all rose to take the tray from her. Annie was first there.
Mrs. Bullfinch said, “I’ll fetch the pot and the plate of cookies,” and turned to leave again.
“I’ll get them,” Delia told her.
Mrs. Bullfinch acquiesced and plopped into an armchair. Picking up the conversation where it had earlier left off, she said, “I’ve lost another dear friend, I’m afraid. Mr. Lambini. Well, he was more than a friend. We were engaged.” She took the cup Annie handed her, waving off the cream and sugar. “I think he must have died.” She set the cup beside her on a table and dug a handkerchief from the bosom of her dress. “I haven’t heard from him since December. If he were alive, he would write. I’ve thought of inquiring about him at the shoe company. I don’t know what to do.”
As she lifted her arm to dismiss the cookie plate, I noticed for the first time that she had lost weight. The skin on her arm hung loose.
She glanced around at the three of us, as if for advice. Sipping coffee and chewing shortbread, we cast about for something helpful or heartening to say.
None of us wanted Imelda Bullfinch writing to the shoe company. Her romance with Mr. Lambini had been naive and silly and pitiful but to have it shattered absolutely by news that a Mrs. Lambini existed, one with two children and a third on the way, was unthinkable. She so needed her illusions intact. Mr. Lambini might be her last commercial traveler.
Delia set her cup down and wiped her lips with a tea napkin. “I have such a strong feeling,” she said, leaning toward Mrs. Bullfinch and taking her hand, “you might call it an intuitive image, that Mr. Lambini is dead. I have always been … intuitive. I don’t want to hurt you, but I feel that you are seeking the truth.”
Mrs. Bullfinch nodded, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.
Delia went on, “I see him carrying a case …”
“His samples.”
“… carrying a case and crossing a busy street. He is hurrying toward a railway station … he doesn’t notice the streetcar bearing down.” Delia stopped abruptly. “Oh, dear.” She tightened her grip on Mrs. Bullfinch’s hand. A moment passed. “That’s … that’s how he died. I’m sure of it.”
Annie and I were transfixed. For a brief second, I really believed that Mr. Lambini had fallen under a streetcar as he hurried toward the train that would carry him to Beardsley.
Tears washed away Mrs. Bullfinch’s uncertainties. She smiled wanly, saying, “My dear, you don’t know the comfort you have given me. I sense that you have a great gift, and you have used it to show me the terrible truth, a truth I had not wanted to accept.”
Speaking to us all, she said, “I’m so glad I didn’t write to the shoe company. It would have been more painful receiving this awful news in a cold business letter.”
We nodded and ate our cookies. I noted that Mrs. Bullfinch finally took one as well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As we headed home, Annie told Delia, “You were astonishing. Are you … intuitive?”
“No more than anyone.”
“Well, you nearly convinced me,” I said.
The next evening I stopped by Mrs. Lander’s to tell June about Delia’s performance.
“Tell Mrs. Lander that Mr. Lambini died,” June said as I was leaving her room. “She’ll begin searching for a suitable replacement.”
In the foyer, Mrs. Lander waylaid me to inquire about Professor Cromwell. “I worry about him,” she said.
“Why on earth?”
“Well, it’s obvious he’s lonely.” Her expression had never been more melting. “You know, lonely men often fall prey to, well, the wrong kind of young woman.”
“I don’t think you need to worry. He’s kept busy with his inventions and teaching. Besides, Annie and Delia and I invite him along when we’re going to a play or a concert.” I pulled on my sweater. “If you want to worry, worry about Mrs. Bullfinch. Mr. Lambini died.”
“Oh, dear! In St. Louis?”
“Yes. Fell under a street car.”
“How horrible!”
I left her with that to occupy her Sunday evening.
Our happy news of the summer of 1918 was the engagement by overseas mail of Miss Delia McDuff to Mr. Dennis Cansler. Annie and I threw her a little Sunday afternoon engagement party, inviting Professor Cromwell; Delia’s boss, Horatio Barnes, dean of students, and his wife, Minette; Mrs. Lander and Mrs. Bullfinch; and Delia’s two friends from our holiday gathering. Delia’s parents, who lived in Peoria, were unable to attend, her mother indisposed with an ear infection. Despite their absence, the gathering was festive. Prominently displayed on the dining room table, along with platters of ribbon sandwiches and little cakes, was a photograph of Dennis in his uniform, stalwart, handsome, and owning perhaps a bit of swagger.
Writing up the occasion for the Beardsley Journal, Mrs. Lander noted, “Among the many lovely gifts received by the bride-to-be were a beautiful silver tea service from her parents and an exquisite linen tablecloth with a dozen matching napkins from Dean and Mrs. Horatio Barnes.”
As the dean and his wife were leaving, he told me, “I have fond memories of your father. He was a solid instructor and a good family man. I recall seeing him in the halls after classes, you on his shoulders, the two of you singing some ditty and laughing.” He cast a wistful glance at his wife. “We were never blessed with children, but I used to think that if we had been, I’d want to be a father like Denton.” He took my hand. “I hope you will find such a man.” Though the words were spoken to me, his gaze strayed over my shoulder.
The world was
determined that Professor Cromwell and I should be paired. However, the world had no knowledge of Roland. Heaven forfend. And the world would never understand. Nor would Annie and Delia; they might feel called upon to sympathize, but their secret hearts would not approve.
In the kitchen, stacking dishes beside the sink, Mrs. Bullfinch confided, “Dear Mrs. Lander introduced me to a widower of her acquaintance. Very nice. Rode with Teddy Roosevelt in Cuba. Lovely head of hair. And you won’t believe this, Ruby, but he sings in the Congregational choir.” By the color in her cheeks, I took this last to be significant.
Aunt’s mantel clock had chimed five-thirty when the last of the guests wished us a good evening and headed out into a warm and fragrant Beech Street. When we’d cleaned up in the kitchen, Delia said, “Let me read you what Dennis wrote in his last letter. I want to know what you think, Ruby. You know more about his situation back in Minnesota.”
She returned, reading aloud as she came, “‘I’ve always wanted to be a farmer. But, since I’ve been over here, I’m having second thoughts. Mostly it’s because I see how important even a county-seat newspaper can be. And how much we need them—all newspapers, big and small.’” Delia sat down on the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her, and read on, “‘Would you hate living in St. Bridget, Minnesota, married to a newspaper editor?
“‘Another reason I’m thinking seriously about this is because my dad is having heart problems. He didn’t tell me. He wouldn’t, but a cousin who lives in St. Bridget wrote me. She said he was even in the hospital a couple of days.
“‘Let me know what you think.’” She folded the pages and looked at me.
“What do you think?” I asked her. “Can you see yourself married to a small-town newspaper editor?”
“More than I can see myself married to a farmer—though I would have done that.”
“That settles it,” I said.
“Just think,” Delia said, “if you still lived near Harvester, I’d get to see you sometimes. I’d have a friend in St. Bridget County.”
Ruby & Roland Page 18